Nellyache’s “The Season”
Now for my part 2 to continue the story….
The joys of organising family Christmas as I ask myself why I put myself through this annual routine. Boxing Day, the next day to come, a day to recover and review, a time of leftovers and cleaning afterwards.
Will I do it all again next year? How could I not?
The family Christmas party, a tradition where we’d gather to celebrate. Presents would be given, news would be told, children would be playing, an argument to stop, a bruise from a fall, the cacophony of being part of a family.
Time for the meal, children sitting separately. Food had been prepared, a task shared by many gathered. Tables covered with treats and drinks suitable for young and old.
“Mummy, Johnny hit me,” a call rings out.
A parent responds. An argument sorted.
Uncle is getting a little too loud, having started his celebration earlier than most. A frown from some slows his pace.
There’s always at least one, “Suzie’s been sick.”
The volume grows. Children and adults happy, sad, angry, loud, the general spread of life before us on this day.
Only I sit quietly, pondering the meaning of the gathering and the struggle at times to keep the joy. Why do we go through this each year?
I heard an angel voice through the chaos and noise. Jackie was singing, a voice so pure. She reminds us of all the right reasons we gather.
The tables are quiet.
“Merry Christmas, everyone,” she ends.
What blessing granted her a voice to quiet us all? Surely the angels have touched her soul.
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“Tis the season to be jolly…” the voices sang.
Looking back on the year past, I considered the reasons why the year might not be so jolly; bills to pay, deadlines to meet, and then there was some illness.
“Merry Christmas,” a smiling child.
Joy quickly returns, “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
“Oh, mummy, the Christmas tree is wonderful. It looks so delicious.”
Simone reached out to take a succulent morsel. The tree faded revealing a room bare of all but a few furnishings.
Simone’s mother held her tightly as she sobbed, “It’s okay. It was a dream.”
“But I’m so hungry.”
Quiet Christmas
(The tune: “White Christmas”)
I’m dreaming of a quiet Christmas,
But the kids won’t let it be.
Where their teardrops glisten,
And I won’t listen,
To hear complaining loud to me.
I’m dreaming of a quiet Christmas,
Now I wake from sleep so deep.
The children giggling,
Between us wriggling,
I hear their joy so clear for me.
I’m dreaming of a family Christmas,
Sat for dinner happily.
Our joy together,
No care the weather,
This is Christmas best for me.
* * * * * * * * * *
For all those who believe, Happy Christmas.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Kylie complained.
“It does! Are you coming?”
Simon crept downstairs and hid.
Before long his parents appeared with gifts, “That’s five for each.”
Simon waited then crept upstairs, “I’m right.”
Kylie frowned, “You’re not.”
In the morning, the family gathered to open gifts, six presents for each.
“But you put five there,” Simon complained.
His parents were surprised, “Yes, five each but don’t forget Santa.”
“There’s an extra,” Simon pointed.
A card read, “For Kylie who always believes, love Santa.”
Kylie found a small bell, “It’s one of Santa’s sleigh bells!”
Simon frowned, “It didn’t have to be that way.”
“Is it me or are bells ringing?”
Father stirred, “It’s nothing.”
Down the hall another stirred. Jarrod was seven.
Again there was the faint sound of bells. Only Jarrod heard. He knew it’d be their kitten playing with decorations.
In his dressing gown he shuffled out of the room, creeping downstairs so his parents wouldn’t hear.
Near their tree was a man in a red suit. Jarrod was about to let out a yell when the man turned. He put his finger to his mouth to signal quiet.
“Merry Christmas, Jarrod,” he said in a whisper as he disappeared.
Jarrod smiled, “No one will believe my blog.”
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Sixteen, the world awakening. Not adult, not child. The journey begun. What awaits, unknown. Go forward.
A worn, tired old frame surrounds a window. The glass, still intact bar one, reflects on the passing world. A house… seen many lives pass through. What ghosts may linger within?
I stand transfixed.
Silence, then a whisper, “Why stand you there?”
The mind plays tricks but, no, again the whisper.
Reflections shimmer, the world outside fades, the face of a child appears, translucent.
She smiles, “Why stand you there?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your child who never was.”
My paternal longing undone.
Tears well in my eyes, “My child?”
“Fear not father,” her face fades, the outside world returned.
Schools and students have permission to use this graphic for non-commercial, educational purposes.
“Would you like fries with that?” Michael heard the waitress ask customers.
He decided it must be a greeting people used in restaurants.
Their meal was arriving. A large tray was piled with their order of burgers and milkshakes.
As the waitress neared, someone pushed a chair back after spilling a coffee.
She tripped.
Our order went flying, landing on me. I stood dripping with milkshake and covered in burgers. The waitress was apologetic as she tried to clean me off.
Michael looked up, “Daddy, would you like fries with that?”
The restaurant burst into laughter with me laughing loudest.
Kids, you’ve got to love them.
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